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LIBRARY  OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS 

AT  URBANA-CHAMPAIGN 


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I .H.S. 


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THE 


Bryant  Centennial 


A  BOOK  ABOUT  A  DAY 


1794*1894 


PRINTED  AT  THE  PRESS  OF  THE  BROTHERHOOD 
FOR  THE  PUBLISHER  EARNEST  ELMO  CALKINS 
KNOX  COLLEGE  GALESBURG  ILLINOIS  MDCCCXCIV 


The  publisher  of   The  Bryant   Centennial,    Earnest   Elmo 

Calkins,  certifies  that  only  two  hundred  and  fifty 

copies  of  the  book  have  been   printed, 

each  signed  by  Mr.  John  Howard 

Bryant,  and  that  this  is 

No.      "^  ^ 


1 


^tom  "at  fitgbts*seven" 

And  now,  amid  the  fading  light, 

With  faltering  steps  I  journey  on, 
Waiting  the  coming  of  the  night, 

hen  earthly  light  and  life  are  gone. 


\ 


Contents 


A  Fore  Word,  7 

A  Monody,  11 

The  Sentiment  of  the  Day,  17 

William  Cullen  Bryant,  23 

Cummington,  25 

The  Centennial  Hymn,  3l 

The  Centennial  Address,  35 

Letters  and  Tributes,  85 


H  ffore  Timorb 

^MB^    HIS  little  book  preserves  the  words  spoken 

/  \  at  Galesburg,  Illinois,  November  3,  1894,  in 

^^\v        celebration  of  the  hundredth  anniversary 

^^'^         of  the  birth  of  the   poet,    William   CuUen 

Bryant.     If  a  reason  were  asked  for  celebrating-  here 

on  the  prairies  this  day,  no  better  answer  could  be 

given  than  that  which  Mr.  Scudder  suggests  in  his 

poetic  note: 

"The  sweep  of  the  prairie  *  *  and  wide  horizon  belong  to  the 
spirit  which  sounds  through  his  grave,  y^X.  impassioned  verse;" 

or  that  of  Mr.  Field's  appreciative  message: 

"Bryant  was  so  loyal  a  lover,  so  enthusiastic  a  student,  and  so 
accurate  a  reader  and  interpreter,  of  Nature,  that  I  find  it  easy  to 
associate  him  with  Galesburg,  its  embowered  homes,  its  venerable, 
hospitable  trees,  its  shady  walks  and  driveways,  its  billowy  lawns, 
its  exuberant  gardens  and  its  charming  vistas.  He  would  have 
loved  that  academic  spot:  he  would  have  loved  the  people,  too,  for 
he  would  have  found  them  gracious,  appreciative  and  sympathetic 
in  all  those  high  and  ennobling  lines  he  always  pursued." 


And  then,  too,  not  far  from  Knox  College,  under 
whose  auspices  the  exercises  were  held,  live  the  ven- 
erable brother  of  the  poet,  Mr.  John  Howard  Bryant, 
himself  a  poet,  and  Mr.  Edward  R.  Brown,  the  orator 
at  the  Cumming-ton  celebration.  The  exercises  were 
held  in  the  "Old  First  Church,"  a  historic  "meeting- 
house" of  the  Mississippi  Valley,  Dr.  Newton  Bate- 
man,  the  distinguished  President-emeritus  of  Knox 
College,  presiding.  The  day  was  as  beautiful  as 
Autumn  has  ever  seen,  and  a  great  audience  was 
gathered.  The  description  of  Bryant's  birthplace  is 
from  a  paper  upon  the  Cummington  celebration,  read 
at  the  Princeton  celebration  by  Mr.  Eugene  C.  Bates. 

This  preface  must  speak,  too,  of  the  reading  of 
"The  Waterfowl,"  and  "Thanatopsis,"  by  Miss  Cham- 
berlain; of  the  song,  "Old  Friends  Are  the  Truest," 
by  Mr.  E.  Lester  Brown,  and  of  other  musical  selec- 
tions by  Mrs.  Marsh  and  Miss  Jelliff.  The  rest  of 
the  day's  exercises  will  be  found  within. 

This  is  a  book  about  a  day  which  will  be  long 
remembered  here  as  one  of  the  most  wholesome,  up- 
lifting days  that  Knox  College  has  known. 

John  H.  Finley 

Knox  College,  Galesburg,  Illinois 
December  20,  1894 


•*^!^. 


JOHN  HOWARD  BRYANT 

My  heart  to-day  is  far  away; 

I  seem  to  tread  my  native  hills; 
I  see  the  flocks  and  mossy  rocks, 

And  hear  the  g-ush  of  mountain  rills. 

There  with  me  walks  and  kindly  talks 
The  dear,  dear  friend  of  all  my  years; 

We  laid  him  low,  not  long-  ago, 

At  Roslyn-side,  with  sobs  and  tears. 

But  though  I  know  that  this  is  so, 

I  will  not  have  it  so  to-day; 
The  illusion  still,  by  force  of  will, 

Shall  give  miy  v/ayward  fancy  play. 

With  joy  we  roam  around  the  home, 
Where  in  our  childhood  days  we  played; 

We  tread  the  mead  with  verdure  spread, 
And  seek  the  woodpath's  grateful  shade. 

11 


We  climb  the  steep  where  fresh  winds  sweep, 
Where  oft  before  our  feet  have  trod, 

And  look  far  forth,  east,  south  and  north. 
Upon  the  glorious  work  of  God. 

We  tread  again  the  rocky  glen, 

Where  foaming  waters  dash  along, 

And  sit  alone  on  mossy  stone, 

Charmed  by  the  thrush's  joyous  song. 

Anon  we  stray,  far,  far  away, 

The  club-moss  crumbling  'neath  our  tread, 
Seeking  the  spot,  by  most  forgot, 

Where  sleep  the  generations  dead. 

And  now  we  come  into  the  home, 

The  dear  old  home  our  boyhood  knew, 

And  round  the  board,  with  plenty  stored, 
We  gather  as  we  used  to  do. 

With  reverence  now,  I  see  him  bow 

That  head,  with  manj'  honors  crowned; 

All  white  his  locks,  as  are  the  flocks 
That  feed  upon  the  hills  around. 

12 


Again  we  meet  in  converse  sweet 
Around  the  blazing-,  cottag-e  hearth, 

And  while  away  the  closing-  day 
With  quiet  speech  and  tales  of  mirth. 

The  spell  is  broke;  ah,  cruel  stroke! 

The  illusive  vision  will  not  stay, 
My  fond  sweet  dream  was  fancy's  gleam. 

Which  stubborn  fact  has  chased  away. 

I  am  alone,  my  friend  is  gone; 

No  more  he'll  seek  that  pleasant  scene; 
His  feet  no  more  shall  wander  o'er 

Those  wooded  hills  and  pastures  green. 

No  more  he'll  look  upon  the  brook, 
Whose  banks  his  infant  feet  had  pressed. 

The  little  rill  whose  waters  still 
Come  dancing  from  the  rosy  west. 

Nor  will  he  climb  at  autumn  time 
Those  hills  the  glorious  sight  to  view, 

When  in  their  best  the  woods  are  dressed 
The  same  his  raptured  boyhood  knew. 

13 


The  hermit  thrush  at  twilig-ht's  hush 
No  more  he'll  hear  with  deep  delight; 

No  blossom  g-ay  beside  the  way- 
Attracts  his  quick  and  eager  sight. 

The  lulling  sound  from  pines  around 
No  more  shall  soothe  his  noonday  rest, 

Nor  trailing  cloud  with  misty  shroud 
For  him  the  mourning  hills  invest. 

That  voice  so  sweet  that  late  did  greet 
My  ear  each  passing  summer-tide, 

Is  silent  now;   that  reverent  brow 
Rests  in  the  grave  at  Roslyn-side. 

His  was  a  life  of  toil  and  strife 

Against  the  wrong  and  for  the  good; 

Through  weary  years  of  hopes  and  fears 
For  Freedom,  Truth  and  Right  he  stood. 

At  length  a  gleam  of  broad  esteem 
On  his  declining  years  was  cast, 

And  a  bright  crown  of  high  renown 
linwreathed  his  hoary  head  at  last. 

14 


His  love  of  song-,  so  deep  and  strong- 
In  boyhood,  faded  not  in  age; 

Till  life's  last  hour  with  noontide  power 
His  g-enius  lit  the  printed  page. 

His  sun  has  set,  its  twilight  yet 
Flushes  the  chambers  of  the  sky; 

A  softer  flame  of  spreading  fame, 
A  glory  that  shall  never  die. 


15 


Zbc  Sentiment  ot  tbe  Dap 

W.  E.  SIMONDS 

^y  FEKL  that  I  am  here  this  morning"  as 
II  learner  rather  than  as  teacher,  and 
3^et  as  a  teacher  of  literature  I  am 
g"lad  of  the  opportunit}^  to  speak  brief  words 
in  appreciation  of  the  man  v/hose  life  and 
work  and  character  we  are  uniting-  to 
honor.  One  hundred  years  ag"o  to-day  there 
was  born  in  a  certain  home  among"  the  hills 
of  western  Massachusetts  our  first  American 
poet.  I  wish  that  we  might,  particularly 
those  of  us  who  are  young"er,  catch,  during" 
this  hour,  a  g"limpse  of  that  home,  and  breathe 
its  atmosphere.  It  is  indeed  a  rare  privileg"e 
that  is  ours  to-da}^,  the  privileg"e  of  looking" 
into  the  face  and  listening"  to  the  voice  of 
one   who   knew   that   home   most  intimately, 

17 


and  of  another  who  was  himself  a  member 
of  that  household  and  knew  our  poet  as  only 
brother  can  know  brother. 

It  is  almost  impossible,  I  take  it,  for  the 
students  of  our  colleges  and  hig-h  schools  to 
realize  the  condition  of  literature  in  this  coun- 
try at  the  beginning  of  the  present  century. 
There  was  no  American  poet  when  Bryant  was 
born;  but  soon,  up  among  the  Berkshire  hills, 
the  lad  began  to  speak,  for  the  poet  in  him 
spoke,  and  he  gave  to  men  in  those  serious, 
solemn  tones  of  his,  which  have  come  down  to 
the  present  day  like  great  organ  tones, 
thoughts  and  ideals  that  have  admonished  and 
inspired.  Happily  Bryant  went  to  nature  and 
listened  to  her  various  voices.  In  forest  anxl 
mountain,  in  the  light  of  the  setting  suns,  the 
blue  sky,  the  round  ocean, — and  in  the  mind  of 

18 


man,  he  felt  the  Presence.  Like  his  brother 
poet  Wordsworth,  Bryant,  too,  heard  the  still, 
sad  music  of  humanity,  and  as  to  the  Eng'lish 
seer,  so  to  the  American  that  music  was  not 
harsh  or  g'rating',  although  with  ample  power 
to  chasten  and  subdue. 

But  it  is  not  alone  the  -poet^  whom  we  honor 
to-day;  it  is  still  more  the  man.  In  the  words 
which  shall  be  spoken  to  you  here,  young*  ladies 
and  g"entlemen,  and  in  the  words  read  to  you 
but  written  elsewhere,  often  will  the  sentiment 
be  noted  that  it  is  the  life  of  Brj^ant  which  is 
his  greatest  g^lory.  Poet  he  was  indeed;  but 
his  truest  poetry  was  the  poetry  that  he  lived. 
Life  is  more  than  utterance  and  character  is 
g"reater  than  mere  expression.  I  am  not,  how- 
ever, here  to  eulog"ize  the  hero  of  the  day.  On 
this  platform  are  others  better  qualified  to  per- 

19 


form  that  gracious  task.  To  me  is  given 
rather  to  formulate  the  "sentiment"  of  the 
day.  Let  me  address  myself  especially  to 
the  3^oung  people  in  this  great  audience;  and 
for  them  particularly,  let  that  sentiment  be: 
"Grateful  remembrance  by- the  present  of  the 
past.  Reverence,  affection,  gratitude,  for  our 
good  and  true  first  poet,  William  Cullen 
Bryant." 


ao 


limUHam  CuUen  Bryant 

1794-1S94 

Gentle  in  spirit  as  in  mien  severe; 

Calm  but  not  cold;  streng-th,  majesty  and  g-race, 
Measure  and  balance  and  repose,  in  clear 

Lines  like  a  sculptor's,  g^raven  on  his  face. 

Such  imag-e  lovers  of  his  verse  have  learned 
To  limn  their  poet,  peaceful  after  strife; 

A  statue,  as  of  life  to  marble  turned? 
Nay,  as  of  marble  turned  to  breathing-  life. 


/uM^i.^ '^^^^^^t^^ 


University  of  Chicag'o 

23 


dummtngton 

EUGENE  C.  BATES 
^^^^  Y  kin-ship  for  Cumming-ton  has  a 
m^  II  ^  ' '  long"  and  toug'h  root;"  little  green 
shoots  are  constantly  spring-ing-  up 
to  remind  me  that  it  is  still  alive.  I  love  Cum- 
ming-ton;  it  is  my  native  town.  I  love  her  plain, 
unobtrusive  people,  true  as  steel  and  g-overned 
by  hig-h  motives.  There  are  the  friends  of  my 
boyhood  and  early  manhood.  The  hills  and 
valleys,  the  woods  and  fields,  the  rocks,  the 
by-ways,  the  cow  lanes  and  stone  walls  seem 
to  be  a  part  of  myself,  and  only  some  mighty 
upheaval  can  detach  me  from  it.  But  few  of 
you  have  visited  this  historic  spot;  yet  not  one 
within  reach  of  my  voice,  but  will  reg^ard  it 
with  reverence  as  the  early  home  of  the  Bry- 
ants.    You  may  not  find  Cummington  on  the 

25 


map,  yet  she  bears  herself  proudly  regardless 
of  the  omission.  Situated  partly  on  the  crest 
and  at  the  foot  of  a  mountain,  in  "Western 
Hampshire  county,  Massachusetts,  midway 
between  Northampton  and  Pittsfield  —  the 
former  being-  in  the  valley  of  the  Connecticut 
river,  the  latter  in  the  Housatonic  valley — 
forty  miles  apart.  It  is  twelve  miles  to  the 
nearest  railwa}'  station.  Cummington  is  about 
the  center  of  what  are  called  the  hill  towns  of 
western  Massachusetts,  lying-  to  the  east  of 
the  "Berkshire  Hills,"  made  famous  by  the 
memory  of  Hawthorne  and  the  Sedg-wicks. 
The  Westfield  river  divides  the  town  from 
west  to  east.  The  valley  is  narrow,  wooded 
hills  rising-  from  either  side,  leaving-  barely 
room  for  the  hig-hway  along"  the  banks  of  the 
rock}'    river    bed.       To   the  west   the   valley 


broadens  to  make  room  for  a  small  village 
(West  Cumming-ton).  Five  miles  to  the  east 
lies  the  village  of  East  Cummington.  Come 
with  me  for  a  drive  on  this  valley  road,  shaded 
much  of  the  way  with  the  over-hanging  alder, 
the  beech  and  the 
birch,  down  "Dug 
Hill"  to  "Lightning- 
bug,"  over  "Roaring 
Brook  "  past  t  h  e  ^ 
"Bryant  Library,"  a  W 
gift  from  William " 
Cullen  Bryant  to  his 
native  town,  then  on  to  East  Cummington. 
On  the  south  side  of  the  valley,  nearly  one 
mile  up  the  steep  and  rugged  motmtain-side, 
half  way  between  the  two  villages  is  the  Bryant 
farm    and    homestead,    consisting    of    forest, 


27 


meadow,  and  orchards  of  apples  and  pears. 
You  reach  the  house  throug'h  an  avenue  of 
maples,  the  fields  lying*  in  peace  just  beyond. 

There  are  no  "discordant  noises  of  industry" 
here.  The  house,  plain  and  commodious,  re- 
tains its  original  shape  as  built  by  Dr. 
Peter  Bryant,  father  of  the  "Bryant  famil^^." 
We  find  a  well-kept  lawn  enclosed  b}^  a 
beautiful  hemlock  hedge.  Standing  on  the 
broad  and  generous  porch,  to  the  north 
you  look  across  the  valley  to  the  rising 
hills,  dotted  with  the  old  farm  buildings. 
In  the  distance  are  the  quaint  old  church  and 
town  house  in  Plainfield,  the  birthplace  and 
the  early  home  of  Charles  Dudley  Warner.  To 
the  east  of  Plainfield  you  see  the  hills  of  Ash- 
field,  made  famous  as  the  summer  home  of 
George  W.  Curtis  and  Charles  Elliott  Norton. 

28 


Here  is  located  the  well  known  Ashfield  Acad- 
emy', which  has  its  annual  dinner  always 
graced  b}-  New  Eng-land's  leading-  literary  men 
and  women.  To  the  east  is  the  rugged  hill- 
top of  Goshen  with  its  one  summer  hotel. 
Next  south  is  the  perfect  New  England  village 
of  Chesterfield.  Crowning  her  mountain  top, 
the  summer  home  of  the  Rev.  John  White  Chad- 
wick  and  his  Brooklyn  friends.  Climbing  the 
mountain-side  and  west  of  the  "Homestead," 
to  the  south  you  see  the  old  town  of  Worth- 
ington.  From  the  summit  of  "Mount  Bry- 
ant," twenty-one  hundred  feet  above  the  sea, 
3'ou  discern  to  the  west  the  "Berkshire  Hills," 
and  to  the  northwest  rises  the  rounded  point 
of  old  Gray  Lock.  What  a  panorama  of  moun- 
tains, hills  and  valleys!  In  spring  and  sum- 
mer,   a   vast  area  of  ever  varying  green;  in 

29 


autumn,  crowned  with  all  the  vivid  colorings 
of  nature;  in  winter,  an  ocean  of  barren  hills 
and  rocks  and  leafless  trees,  clothed  in  sombre 
brown  or  covered  with  its  mantle  of  snow,  still 
grand  in  its  ruggedness.  What  a  birth-place 
and  early  home  for  nature's  greatest  inter- 
preter! 


-^--xr\P| 


30 


^or  tbc  'g3unDreC)tb  Bnniversar^  ot  :ffir^ant's  :Sivtb 

JOHN  WHITE  CHADWICK 

Thou  mighty  God,  who  didst  of  old 
The  psalmist's  wondrous  song-  inspire, 

Our  hearts  are  glad  that  every  age 
Is  touched  by  Thy  immortal  fire. 

We  bless  Thee  for  that  radiant  band 
Whose  voices  on  our  Western  shore 

Have  made  a  music  clear  and  sweet 
Which  men  shall  love  forevermore. 

Still  fresh  the  grief  that  fills  our  hearts 
For  him  who  lingered  on  awhile. 

When  all  the  rest  had  gone,  to  cheer 
Our  spirits  with  his  happy  smile. 

Dear  poet  of  the  cheerful  heart, 

How  can  our  voices  choked  with  tears 

Lift  up  a  song  aright  to  him 
Whose  cycle  counts  a  hundred  years? 

31 


He  loved  the  vales,  the  woods,  the  streams, 
The  mountains  cheered  his  loftier  mind; 

The  winds  their  summits  nurtured  found 
His  soul  as  free  and  unconfined. 

A  deeper  joy  his  song  instilled 

For  everj'  flower  that  g-ems  the  sod; 

He  looked  through  Nature's  trembling  veil, 
And  saw  the  face  of  Nature's  God. 

Yet  more  the  press  of  busy  men 
Allured  him  than  the  forest's  aisle, 

And  more  the  strife  with  social  ill 
Than  ever  the  blue  heaven's  smile. 

Wherever  Right  her  flag  unfurled, 
And  Justice  showed  a  better  way, 

And  Truth  and  Freedom  spurned  the  night. 
And  hailed  the  burnished  spears  of  day, 

There  was  his  place  and  there  he  made 
His  voice  a  clarion,  ringing  clear, 

To  rouse  the  sleepers,  wake  the  dead. 
And  stay  the  faint  with  hope  and  cheer. 

32 


O,  Thou,  who  in  the  crowded  streets 
As  in  the  leafy  coverts  dim, 

His  song-  inspired,  be  Thou  with  us 
As  ever,  in  his  day,  with  him, 

That  Nature's  good  our  hearts  may  fill 
With  holy  peace,  while  still  we  move 

With  tireless  feet  on  Duty's  quest, 
And  do  the  patient  work  of  Love. 


33 


"  The  melancholy  days  have  come, 
The  saddest  of  the  year, 
Of  wailing  winds  and  naked  woods 
And  meadows  brown  and  sere" 


Ubc  Centennial  HD^ress 

EDWIN  R.  BROWN 

^mm^  HIS  occasion  is  shadowed  by  the  recent 
L   \  death  of  the  g-entle   and  delig-htful 

^^^  g-enius  who  has  long-  been  the  Auto- 
crat of  our  breakfast  tables.  Holmes  was  the 
last,  as  Br3'ant  was  the  pioneer,  of  the  Great 
Six  of  American  poetry.  He  was  the  last, 
too,  of  that  high-souled  circle  of 
wits,  poets  and  idealists, — Haw- 
thorne, Thoreau,  Marg-aret  Fuller, 
Agassiz,  Motley,  and  their  compeers, 
— whose  habitat  was  about  Cam- 
bridg^e  and  Concord,  and  whose  work 
g-raced  and  g-lorified  the  pag-es  of  the  old  At- 
lantic Monthly  in  its  early  days. 


Wherever  in  the  wide  Unseen  the  Autocrat 

37 


may  be  to-day,  I  have  no  doubt  he  singfs  still 
and  will  ever  sing-, 

"Build  thee  more  stately  mansions,  O  my  soul, 
As  the  swift  seasons  roll." 

Cumming-ton  is  one  of  the  loveliest  and  most 
secluded  little  towns   of   Western   Massachu- 
setts.     It  is   accessible  only  by  considerable 
j^^5     climbitig-  over  lofty  ridges,  by  winding,  nar- 

row  and  vine-bordered  hig-li- 

ways,  and  has  no 
railroad,  nor  tele- 
graph nor  telephone 
nor  newspaper.    It  is 

a  lost  Arcadia   in  miniature.      There,    on  a 

stormy  November  evening,  exactly  a  century 

ago,  while  a  raw  east  wind  whistled  drearily 

around  the  mountain  home  of  Dr.  Peter  Bryant, 

America's  first  great  poet  was  born.     Only  four 

days  later  the  weather  had  changed,  and  little 

38 


Cullen  took  his  first  outing-  with  his  mother, 
and  looked  vag-uely  out,  we  may  suppose,  on 
the  glorious  landscape  he  afterward  came  to 
love  so  well.  The  region  is  high,  yet  sheltered 
by  loftier  heights.  In  the  foreground  the  rapid 
Westfield  river,  mostly  hidden  from  view  in  its 
deep,  narrow  valley,  sends  up,  when  all  is  calm, 
a  mellow  and  soothing  roar  from  its  rocky  bed. 
Beyond,  the  rock-ribbed  heights,  ridge  beyond 
ridge,  stretch  away  to  Monadnock  on  the  east, 
and  on  the  west,  to  blue  old  Greylock, 

"Familiar  with  forgotten  years." 

It  was  one  of  those  mystical  and  delicious 
Indian  summer  days,  of  which  the  New  Eng- 
land climate  always  reserves  a  little  sheaf  for 
November, 

"As  still  such  days  wiU  come 
To  call  the  squirrel  and  the  bee  from  out  their  winter  home;" 

one  of  those  days,  when,  as  the  legend  runs, 

39 


' '  The  Indian  sun-g-od,  preparing-  for  his  win- 
ter's sleep,  fills  his  g-reat  pipe  and  divinely 
smokes  away  the  hours,"  filling-  all  the  autumn 
landscape  with  the  soft  blue  haze  of  his  dreams. 
It  was  a  fitting-  time  and  place  for  the  intro- 
duction of  Nature's  own  poet  to  our  waiting- 
planet. 

Kvery  step  in  the  poet's  long-  life,  every 
aspect  of  his  character  and  work,  is  to  me  a 
kind  of  hallowed  pleasure-g-round, — but,  lest  I 
consume  an  luidue  share  of  your  time,  I  will 
confine  mj^self  to  a  few  phases  of  the  subject, 
making-  my  talk  simple  and  rem.iniscent  rather 
than  critical.  Looking-  backward  from  the 
heig-ht  of  a  century,  that  g-entle  mag-ician, 
Distance,  lends  such  tender  enchantment  to  the 
story  of  early  days  among-  the  dear  old  hills, 
that  I  will  rather  recall  the  work  and  play  and 

40 


rare  environment  of  tlie  poet's  youth  than  the 
later  days  of  assured  honor  and  world-wide 
renown. 

First,  Ladies  and  Gentlemen,  let  us  locate 
Bryant  in  history.  A  fresh  impulse  from  some 
unrecog"nized  source  was  g-iven  to  men's  minds 
in  the  early  years  of  the  present  century. 
There  was  a  revival  of  poetry  in  many  lands,  a 
liberation  from  old  forms,  bring-ing-  in  a  sim- 
pler style,  and  a  closer  cling-ing-  to  the  breast 
of  nature.  New  England  g-ave  us,  so  to  speak, 
six  giants  of  poetry  at  a  birth  —  Bryant, 
Emerson,  Whittier,  Longfellow,  Lowell  and 
Holmes.  Across  the  sea  arose  a  similar 
group  almost  simultaneously  —  Wordsworth, 
Scott,  Byron,  .^^     x  Coleridge, 

Keatsand  '-H  Tennyson. 


? 


/«« 


vy 


Poets  are  not  necessarily  abnor- 
mal, unbalanced  and  improvident 
beings.  All  the  American  group 
came  of  sound  and  well-regulated 
families,  and  all  bad  charming  households  of 
their  own,  well  provided  for.  All  were  pro- 
foundly religious,  and  though  not 
one  of  them  could  be  counted  evan- 
gelical, the}'  all  modesth^  sang  and 
lived  that  elder  and  eternal  religion 
that  is  always  true,  while  theologies 
and  mythologies  pass  away.  I  heard 
that  bundle  of  energy  and  efficiency,  your  own 
President  Finley,  remark  in  an  eloquent  Fourth 
of  July  address,  that  there  are  lan- 
guages in  which  there  is  no  such 
word  as  home;  but  with  our  poetic 
Six  that  word  home  is  the   central 


'.V?' 


42 


V/^<^- 


sun  around  which  lang"uag"e  re- 
volves. John  Bright  said  he  liked 
'  '  '  to  read  American  poets  better  than 
the  British,  not  that  they  were  better  poets, 
but  because  they  were  better  citizens. 

Wordsworth  first  caug-ht  on  his  side  of  the 
sea,  the  new  spirit  I  have  spoken  of,  as  did 
Bryant  on  the  American.  These  two  have 
much  in  common.  There  is  the  same  simplic- 
ity and  exquisite  fitness  of  lang-uag-e,  the  same 
tenderness,  and  the  same  sense  of  eternal  equi- 
librium in  the  universe, — 

"  No  great  and  no  small 
To  the  Soul  that  maketh  all." 

Bryant  is  the  more  modest.     In  Wordsworth 
it  is  always  Wordsworth  who  speaks; 
in  Bryant  the  voice  often  seems  to 
come  from  "earth  and   her  waters, 

43 


and  the  depths  of  air."  To  them  both  the 
twinkle  of  a  dewdrop  in  the  grass  is  as  essen- 
tial to  the  integrity  of  the  universe  as  the 
mighty  whirl  of  Saturn  and  his  rings  of  glory. 
Of  the  group  of  large-brained  and  stout- 
hearted brothers  and  sisters,  of  whom  William 
Cullen  Bryant  was  the  bright  particular 
star,  but  one  remains  "on  this  bank 
and  shoal  of  time,"  John  Hov/ard 
Bryant,  who,  thank  heaven,  is  with 
us  this  morning  in  a  fair  state  of 
vi  health.  Full  of  days  and  of  good 
works,  he  carries  off  his  eighty-seven 
years  with  brain  unscathed,  and  a  brave  and 
cheerful  spirit.  "Winter  is  on  his  head,  but 
eternal  spring  is  in  his  heart."  He  seems  to 
me,  now  that  the  Great  Six  have  passed  away, 
to  be  a  kind  of  afterglow  left  on  our  sky. 

44 


I  have  no  SYmpathy  with  that  Talmagian, 
emotion-hunting-  spirit  that  runs  back  with  lit- 
eral keg"  and  bottle  to  bring-  home  water  from 
the  Jordan  or  the  Rubicon.  But  I  confess  to 
an  intense  interest  in  the  mountain  homestead 
where  our  poet  and  his  brother  wroug-ht 
with  axe  and  flail,  while  his  mother  and 
sisters  made  ^olian  music  on  the  spin- 
ning wheel.  It  is  no  wonder  that  in 
August  last  a  g-reat  company  —  g-reat  in 
quality  as  well  as  in  number — g-athered  on  the 
old  farm  and  honored  themselves  in  honoring- 
the  poet's  memory,  as  you,  ladies  and  g-entle- 
men,  are  doing-  here  this  morning-.  That  corn- 
pan}'  were  seated  in  the  shade  of  venerable 
beeches  on  whose  dappled  bark  the  poet  carved 
his  name  ninety  years  ago.  A  few  rods  away 
flows  the  now  classic  "  Rivulet,"  still  "singing- 

45 


down  its  narrow  g-len;"  and  across  a  narrow 
meadow  on  the  south  stands  the  dark  wood  for 
whose  entrance  the  "Inscription "  was  written, 
its  tall  trees  still  waving-  and  whispering-  in 
response  to  the  mountain  wind,  that  "most 
spiritual  thing  of  all  the  wide  earth  knows." 
Across  the  deep  g-org-e  of  the  Westfield  can  be 
seen  winding-  up  the  opposite  heig-hts  the  nar- 
row hig-hwaj  up  which  young  Bryant  walked 
in  the  twilight  of  a  December  daj  in  1815, 
feeling  forlorn  and  desolate  over  his  prospects 
in  life,  for  he  was  now  twenty-one  years  of 
ag-e,  and  was  g-oing-  out  to  make  his  own  way 
in  the  big  practical  world  for  himself.  Against 
the  crimson  afterglow  of  sunset  he  noted  the 
flight  of  a  sing-le  duck  on  his  southward  mig-ra- 
tion.  Here  was  a  wanderer  as  lonely  as  him- 
self, speeding-  confidently  away  into  distance 

46 


and  approaching"  nig"ht.  It  was  this  incident 
that  sug-g-ested  and  called  forth  those  lines,  by 
many  counted  his  best,  "To  a  waterfowl." 
You  all  know  the  closing*  stanza;  at  least,  that 
little  quatrain  which  has  been  to  multitudes 
in  hours  of  doubt  and  apprehension,  "the 
shadow  of  a  great  rock  in  a  weary  land,"  with 
its  sublime  trust,  and  will  be  while  the  lan- 
g"uag"e  endures, — 

"He  who,  from  zone  to  zone, 
Guides  throug-h  the  boundless  sky  thy  certain  flight, 
In  the  long-  way  that  I  must  tread  alone, 

Will  lead  my  steps  aright." 

Victor  Hug-o  was  rig-ht  when  he  said, 
"Kvery  bird  that  flies  carries  the  thread  of  the 
infinite  in  his  claw."  That  lone  bird  disap- 
peared in  the  distance,  and  the  poet  has  passed 
to  the  Unseen,  but  by  a  noble  touch  of  gfenius 
that  thread  became  a  cable  of  hope  and  trust, 

47 


strong-  and  imperishable.  And  O,  how  often, 
to  the  reformer,  harried  and  buffeted  in  the 
long-  strug-gle  with  ig-norance  and  sham  and 
wrong-,  come,  like  cooling-  water  from  the 
well  of  Haran,  those  precious  lines, 

"Truth  crushed  to  earth  will  rise  again, 
The  eternal  years  of  God  are  her's ! " 

Do  not  wonder  that  I  have  made  much  of 
locality,  for  there  is  not  a  rustic  home,  a  g-ur- 
gling-  brook,  or  a  murmuring  pine  on  all  my 
native  hills  that  has  not  its  added  dower  of 
beauty  from  Bryant's  immortal  words.  He 
made  those  mountain  streams  sacred  in  litera- 
ture like  the  Avon  and  the  Doon.  And  let  me 
remind  you,  that  no  other  has  sung-  so  grandly 
and  truly  of  the  Prairies  as  he.  In  company 
with  his  youngest  brother  he  rode  over  these 

48 


broad  and  silent  savannas  on  horseback,  when 
the  wild,  unshorn  and  verdant  wastes  shone 

'•"With  flowers  whose  glory  and  whose  multitude 
Rivalled  the  constellations." 

The  "Painted  Cup,"  in  scarlet  tufts,  glowed 
in  the  wide  stretch  of  green  like  flakes  of  fire; 
and  the  little  Indian  demon,  the  Manitou  of 
flowers,  drank  from  those  bright  chalices  the 
gathered  dew.  Those  flowers,  as  Fitz-Greene 
Halleck  would  have  said,  were  beings  of 
beauty  and  decay,  and  they  are  gone;  ripened 
corn  leaves  rustle  to-da}-  where  the  Painted 
Cup  glowed  on  the  boundless  lawn  sixty  3'ears 
ago;  the  locomotive  has  supplanted  the  bison, 
but  on  Bryant's  own  "Prairies"  the  bison  still 
roams  a  monarch,  and  the  "Painted  Cup" 
blooms  on,  and  will  bloom  on  forever. 

Bryant  was  as  nearly  without  vices  as  men  get 

49 


to  be.  He  was  a  marvel,  but  no  miracle.  He 
was  the  result  of  high  and  favoring-  conditions. 
Among-  these  is  the  fact  that  he  came  of  a 
line  sound  in  physique,  strong-  of  brain  and 
eminent  for  virtue;  and  that  the  perspective  of 
his  lineag-e  runs  back  to  John  Alden  and  Pris- 
cilla  Mullins  under  the  bows  of  the 
Mayflower.  Streng-th  and  integrity 
characterized  the  line. 

In  Bryant's  parentage  there  was  a 
happy  combination  of  Cavalier  and 
Puritan  in  temperament.  Dr.  Peter 
Bryant,  genial,  scholarly,  generous  and  poetic; 
Mrs.  Bryant,  plodding,  persistent,  energetic  and 
scrupulous  as  the  lines  of  light, — what  happier 
race  mixture  could  be  desired?  The  poet's 
grandfather  Snell  was  Abrahamic,  Puritanic 
and  severe  in  faith.     The  old  gentleman  had 

50 


in  him  a  vein  of  humor,  but  a  joke  from  Squire 
Snell  was  a  comic  cherub  carved  on  an  old-time 
tombstone.  Usually  he  was  so  g'rave  that,  as 
Lamb  would  say,  "Newton  might  have  de- 
duced the  law  of  gravitation  from  him."  To 
little  Cullen  his  Puritan  grandfather  was  a  cave 
of  gloom;  his  mother  was  his  relia.nce,  and  his 
father  was  sunshine  and  inspiration. 

There  was  then  no  ceaseless  flood  of  cheap 
books  and  periodicals,  good,  bad  and  indiffer- 
ent, as  to-day,  but  Dr.  Bryant  wisely  provided 
appetizing  and  nourishing  pasturage  of  books 
in  which  his  children  could  browse  at  will, 
such  as  "Little  Jack,"  "Robinson  Crusoe," 
and  Mrs.  Barbauld's  stories.  Often,  the  Doc- 
tor, returning  weary  from  his  severe  profes- 
sional rides  over  the  hills,  would  stretch  him- 
self out  on  the  "settle,"  and  would  call  Cullen 

51 


to  read  or  recite  from  Watts'  Hymns  ;  for  their 
perfect  musical  rythm  and  noble  imag-ery  were 
a  restful  delight  to  him.  This  the  boy  would 
do,  usually  mounting-  a  chair  to  give  his  deliv- 
ery vantage  ground.  Whether  so  intended  by 
the  Doctor  or  not,  this  was  an  admir- 
able training  for  the  ear  and  the  im- 
agination of  the  future  poet.  Then 
followed  the  best  periodicals,  few, 
but  nutritious,  in  which  good  Dr. 
Channing  shone  a  star  of  the  first 
magnitude  ;  and  alwa3^s  at  hand  were  Plutarch 
and  the  poets,  Pope,  Gray  and  Goldsmith. 
From  these  sprang  the  poet's  early  and  life- 
long interest  in  the  Greeks  and  their  struggles 
for  liberty,  in  which  he  became  as  enthusiastic 
as  Byron  himself.  On  rainy  days  the  little 
boys,  Austin  and  William  Cullen,  would  be- 

52 


take  themselves  to  the  barn,  and  with  old  hats 
for  helmets,  and  plumes  of  tow,  would  fight 
over  ag-ain  the  battles  of  the  Greeks  and 
Trojans. 

Dr.  Bryant  was  an  accomplished  physician,  a 
Federalist  and  a  leader  in  politics,  with  a  hig-h 
literary  reputation  and  g^reat  hospitality. 
These  considerations  drew  authors,  judg-es  and 
clerg-ymen  from  far  and  near,  to  tarry  for  a 
nig-ht,  and  refresh  themselves  by  contact  with 
a  man  of  culture  and  information.  The  com- 
ing poet  and  politician,  as  a  listening  and  recep- 
tive boy,  must  have  absorbed  from  such  com- 
pany much  that  no  professional  boys'  school 
could  have  given  him.  Then  he  had  the  vir- 
gin forest  solitudes  for  a  playground,  and  there 
his  mind,  without  effort  of  his  own,  became 
stored  with  those  pleasing  natural  images  and 

S3 


analogies   which,   he   used   with   such    mag'ic 
effect  in  all  the  after  years. 

Except  for  the  companionship  of  a  scholarly' 
father  at  odd  hours,  and  the  many  visitors  at 
the  homestead,  Bryant's  boyhood  passed  much 
like  that  of  other  lads  in  the  same  region, 
though  he  must  often  have  felt  stirring  within 
him  higher  thoughts  and  sweeter  dreams  than 
he  could  share  with  his  rustic  companions. 
The  meagre  winter  school,  the  Meeting-House, 
solemn  and  cold,  standing  cheek  by  jowl  with 
the  tavern,  jolly  and  warm;  the  great  stage 
coach,  and  the  driver's  mellow  horn;  the  "Post 
Rider,"  bringing  the  county  paper;  "Militia 
Trainings"  on  "Meeting-House  Green,"  rais- 
ings, huskings,  apple  bees  and  singing 
schools, — these  as  well  as  hard  work,  were 
features  of  the  time;  and  best  of  all,  that  gen- 

54 


uine  civic  * 'university  extension,"  the  New 
Eng-land  town-meeting",  that  most  precious 
institution  broug^ht  from  the  Netherlands  by 
the  Pilg-rim  Fathers.  It  was  a  model  school 
of  public  business  and  debate  which  boys  were 
allowed  to  attend.  The  "March  Meeting" 
was  the  Massachusetts  House  of  Commons, 
and  the  orthodox  pulpit  was  its  House  of 
Lords. 

I  often  wonder  whether  we  should  ever  have 
had  from  Br^-ant  a  Thanatopsis  or  a  Forest 
Hymn  if  our  present  mediocrity-making*  school 
system,  with  its  constant  competitive  examina- 
tions, and  its  markings  and  child  prizes,  had 
been  in  vog-ue  a  hundred  ^^ears  ag-o.  I  do  not 
believe  we  should.  Far  better  was  it  for  the 
boy  Bryant  to  listen  to  Socratic  discussions  by 
his  father's  broad  fireside,  or  to  the  "nooning-" 

55 


debates  of  the  sturdy  farmers,  as  they  ate  their 
rye  and  Indian  bread  and  cheese  on  the  steps 
of  the  Old  Yellow  Meeting-House.  These 
discussions  were  largely  political,  the  majority 
of  the  people  of  the  region,  led  by  Dr.  Bryant, 
being  zealous  Federalists.  Jefferson  was 
New  England's  bugaboo.  It  was  the  very 
time  of  which  Wendell  Phillips  used  to  tell, 
when  Massachusetts  mothers  frig-htened  their 
children  to  sleep  by  saying,  "Thomas  Jeffer- 
son!" But  the  boy  poet  had  learned  to  reason, 
and  so,  though  as  a  boy  he  gave  his  satire 
free  rein  on  Jefferson  in  his  "Embargo,"  in 
due  time  he  became  an  honored  leader  of  the 
Jeffersonian  forces  of  the  land. 

No  Greek  or  Roman  matron  of  heroic  days 
left  a  more  spotless  record  of  a  busy  life  than 
the  poet's  mother.     To  her  example  he  attrib- 

56 


utes  his  rig"id  adherence  to  the  great  ' 
rule  of  rig-ht  without  regard  to  per- 
sons. She  was  in  person  tall,  ag-ile 
and  strong-,  her  clear,  fresh  complexion  g-iving- 
her  a  youthful  appearance,  even  in  old  ag"e. 
She  was  an  expert  horse-woman,  and  at  the 
ag"e  of  sixty-seven  could  vault  from  the  g*round 
into  the  saddle. 

The  poet's  mother  kept  a  most  remarkable 
diary.  Not  such  as  most  of  us  keep,  which 
after  the  first  week  or  two  of  the  New  Year  is 
left  to  perish  of  neglect,  but  she  kept  one  for 
fifty-three  solid  years,  without  the  break  of  a 
day.  Every  day  has,  in  her  own  hand,  a  con- 
densed record  of  weather,  household  work  and 
neighborhood  events.  Nothing  was  allowed 
to  interfere.  Company,  sickness,  journeys, 
birth,  death  itself,  made  no  break  in  the  record. 

57 


Bach  year  has  its  quaint  little  volume,  the 
paper  being"  cut  and  bound  by  her  own  hands, 
and  sewed  with  linen  thread  of  her  own  spin- 
ning-. The  poet's  reticence,  his  steadfastness, 
and  his  life-long"  care  never  to  say  the  wrong 
word,  are  foreshawdowed  in  this  diary.  This 
kind,  persistent,  practical  woman,  in  all  the 
nearly  20,000  entries  of  the  diary,  makes  no 
complaint,  speaks  no  unpleasant  v/ord  of  a 
neighbor,  and  utters  never  a  syllable  of  cant 
or  gush!  Old  Isaac  Disraeli,  in  his  three  vol- 
umes of  the  "Curiosities  of  Literature,"  has 
nothing"  to  match  this. 

Among  the  quaint  and  sug"gestive  memo- 
randa of  baking",  brewing",  spinning,  church- 
going,  and  sausage-cutting,  would  come  such 
items  as  this,  "Warped  a  piece  for  Mrs. 
Briggs,"  "Made  a  bonnet  for  myself,"  "Made 

58 


NOVEMBER      9,     1794- 


Paid. 


MiMORAfiDuMS  and  Remarks. 


^-s^^-^ 


Sa.  €^. 


^. 


^ 


a  cover  for  John"  (a  cover  was  an  all-around 
apron),  "Turned  a  pair  of  trousers  for  Cullen." 

And  here  is  an  entry  of  especial  interest  for 
this  occasion.  It  was  made  a  hundred  years 
ago  to-day.  It  is  not  underscored;  there  is  no 
index  fing-er  pointing-  it  out  as  important,  yet 
it  marks  an  era  in  American  literature: 


"M.  3.    Stormy;  wind  n.  e.;  churned;  unwell;  seven  at  night 
a  son  born." 


From  the  record  for  1811,  we  find  that  Cul- 
len was  at  Williams  CoUeg^e,  but  came  home 
in  May.  A  calf  was  killed,  but  whether  in 
honor  of  the  student's  return  is  not  stated.  In 
December,  1811,  he  goes  to  Worthington  to 
study  law;  and  he  goes  wearing  the  overcoat 
his  own  mother  cut  and  made  for  him.  It  also 
appears  that  she  made  the  bottlegreen  broad- 

60 


cloth    suit   which    her    husband,  the    Doctor, 
wore  in  the  Massachusetts  senate. 

Still  on  and  on  the  diar}^  goes  for  more  than 
half  a  century,  till  at  Princeton,  in  the  winter 
of  1847,  it  records  her  fall,  and  the  breaking- 
of  a  hip,  but  there  is  no  break  in  the  record, 
which  still  tells  the  weather,  the  kindness  of 
friends,  the  coming  and  going  of  fugitive 
slaves  on  the  Underground  Railroad,  the  last 
tremulous  entry  being  made  by  her  own  stiffen- 
ing fingers,  on  the  last  day  of  her  life, 
May  1,  1847. 

In  the  lines  beginning,  ' '  The  May  sun  sheds 
an  amber  light,"  Bryant  speaks  tenderly  of 
his  mother. 

"Thanatopsis"  must  be  counted  the  most 
remarkable  of  short  poems.  The  extreme 
youth   of   the  author,   and  the  fact  that  the 

61 


existence  of  the  poem  was  a  secret  shared  with 
no  other  human  being",  for  five  years  at  least, 
give  it  a  mystery  and  marvel  that  add  to  its 
grandeur.  It  is  the  vastest  figure  of  death 
ever  drawn.  The  subject,  though  ancient  as 
Arcturus  and  Orion,  and  hackneyed  forever, 
seems  new  and  untried.  The  author  tells  us 
only  what  we  knew  full  well  before,  but  tells 
it  with  such  fitness  and  power  that  he  seems 
to  be  the  original  discoverer,  and  to  have  res- 
cued the  fact  from  chaos.  Like  the  shot  of 
the  embattled  farmers  at  Concord,  it  was  the 
first  of  its  kind, — a  voice  heard  round  the 
world.  We  can  well  imagine  Milton  saying 
to  Bryant,  as  he  said  to  another,  "After  so 
glorious  a  performance,  3'ou  ought  to  do  noth- 
ing that  is  mean  and  little,  not  so  much  as  to 
think  of  anything  but  what  is  great  and  sub- 

62 


lime!"     If  any  such  injunction  was  heard  by 
our  author,  grandly  did  he  heed  it. 

When  as  a  boy  of  eight  to  ten  years  of  age, 
I  sat  on  the  "Little  Seats"  in  the  old  red 
school-house  on  the  Cummington  hills,  the  big- 
ger boys  and  girls  sometimes  had  "Thanatop- 
sis"  for  a  reading  lesson.  I  was  always  a 
deeply  interested  listener  when  the  big  boys 
and  girls  struggled  through  the  noble  selec- 
tions in  the  old  readers.  Even  then  there 
arose  in  my  mind  a  vague  wonder  why  it  was, 
that  to  hear  the  minister  talk  of  death  made 
my  flesh  creep  and  my  heart  sink,  while  to 
hear  "Thanatopsis,"  though  the  theme  was 
the  very  same,  was  soothing  and  exalting. 
Doubtless  this  was  in  part  due  to  the  large 
way  in  which  the  subject  is  viewed  in  the 
poem,  the  magnificent  vastness  and  univers- 

63 


ality  of  the  fact  of  death  taking*  away  the  feel- 
ing" of  loneliness  and  gloom.  It  was  even  a 
little  flattering-, — "Thou  shalt  lie  down  with 
patriarchs  of  the  infant  world,  with  king's," 
and  so  on.  Perhaps  it  was  also  the  deep  sea 
roll  of  its  rhythm,  and  the  exquisite  simplicity 
and  fitness  of  lang"uag"e,  which  even  a  child 
could  feel,  and  whose  beauty  not  even  the 
shambling-  awkwardness  of  the  rustic  readers 
could  altog-ether  mar  or  hide.  Its  solemn 
imagery  came  into  my  boyish  mind  with 
the  pensive  sweetness  of  far-off  midnight 
music.  There  is  nothing  in  it  pitiful  and  dis- 
tressing, as  in  Addison's  "Vision  of  Mirza," 
with  its  terrible  bridge  in  the  valley  of  Bagdad, 
but  all  is  grand,  orderly  and  serene. 

A  mile  from  the  Bryant  home  on  a  high 
ridge  of  rock,  called  "  Meeting-House  Hill," 

64 


stood  the  "Old  Yellow  Meetiiig--House," 
a  huge,  wind-shaken  structure,  in  whose  vast 
attic  were  kept  the  town's  reserve  of  muskets 
and  ammunition.  Sitting  in  the  gallery  of 
that  old  meeting-house  might  be  seen  on  Sun- 
days in  the  summer  of  1811,  a  handsome, 
smooth-faced  youth  of  seventeen,  who  seemed 
to  be  listening  decorously  to  the  long  homilies 
poured  forth  by  good  Parson  Briggs  from  the 
high  pulpit,  in  which  the  preacher  seemed  to 
be  going  to  sea  in  a  mug.  Really,  the 
thoughts  of  the  handsome  youth  in  the  wide 
gallery  were  wandering  in  "God's  first  tem- 
ples," and  he  was  listening  to  "Airs  from 
viewless  Kden  blown,"  for  "Thanatopsis"  was 
then  taking  form  in  his  mind.  How  little  the 
grave  and  stately  minister  dreamed  that,  when 
eighty  years  should  have  rolled  away,  the  solil- 

65 


oquj  of  the  handsome  youth  would  be  known 
and  admired  in  all  civilized  lands  and  lan- 
guag-es,  while  his  own  faithful  and  sonorous 
messages  of  more  than  fifty  consecutive  years, 
would  have  passed,  with  the  tall  pulpit  and 
sounding'-board  from  which  they  were  pro- 
mulg-ated,  to  a  deep  and  common  forgetful- 
ness!  "Thanatopsis"  is  the  soliloquy  of  youth, 
yet  forgotten  nations,  ancient  constellations, 
and  the  living  present  seem  to  be  reverently 
listening,  and  adding  their  solemn  Amen. 

"The  golden  sun, 
The  planets,  all  the  infinite  host  of  heaven, 
Are  shining-  on  the  sad  abodes  of  death, 
Through  the  still  lapse  of  ages.     All  that  tread 
The  globe  are  but  a  handful  to  the  tribes 
That  slumber  in  its  bosom. — Take  the  wings 
Of  morning,  pierce  the  Barcan  wilderness, 
Or  lose  thyself  in  the  continuous  woods 
Where  rolls  the  Oregon,  and  hears  no  sound. 
Save  his  own  dashings — yet  the  dead  are  there: 
And  millions  in  those  solitudes,  since  first 
The  flight  of  years  began,  have  laid  them  down 
In  their  last  sleep — the  dead  reign  there  alone." 

66 


This  was  not  written  for  fame  nor  to  propo- 
xate 3  theory.  We  all  instantly  agree  that 
what  is  said  is  true,  but  if  there  were  a  theory, 
the  more  exact  the  statement,  the  more  certain 
we  should  be  of  disagreement.  It  was  no  more 
affected  by  authority,  conventionalism,  the 
exigencies  of  reputation,  or  financial  consider- 
ations than  the  "flight  of  years"  itself. 

Henry  Ward  Beecher,  in  a  discourse  deliv- 
ered soon  after  the  poet's  death,  pronounced 
"Thanatopsis"  a  pagan  poem.  Well,  it  is  the 
poem  of  the  human  race,  and  that  includes  the 
pagan.  It  is  pagan,  as  the  air,  the  sea,  and 
the  Zodiac  are  pagan.  Death  is  simply  and 
surely  restored  to  its  proper  place  in  the  beau- 
tiful, universal  order.  It  is  the  one  great 
poem  to  which  a  date  would  be  an  imperti- 
nence.    It  fits  as  perfectly  for  ten  thousand 

67 


years  ag-o,  or  ten  thousand  years  hence,  as  for 
today.  No  modern  genius  has  given  sweeter 
expression  to  youth  and  beauty,  than  did  some 
of  the  pagan  poets,  dead  twenty  centuries  ago; 
but  of  all  the  long  line,  from  Homer  down,  it 
was  reserved  for  the  boy  Bryant,  more  than 
any  other,  to  complete  Nature's  circuit,  and 
make  even  old  age  and  death  grand  and  sweet. 
Ivct  us  recall  for  a  moment  Bryant's  rare 
personality.  There  was  an  indefinable  some- 
thing in  his  whole  aspect  that  at  once  conveyed 
the  impression  of  a  nature  reverend,  robust  and 
grand.  He  was  erect  in  figure,  always  stand- 
ing squarely  on  both  feet, — a  mental  as  well 
as  a  physical  characteristic.  His  head  and 
face,  like  his  first  great  poem,  seemed  to 
belong  to  all  ages  of  the  world.  What  a  capi- 
tal model  it  would  have  furnished  for  a  gigan- 

68 


tic  sculpture  on  the  pediment  of  the  Parthenon! 
Some  faces  carry  their  date  and  all  their  story 
in  the  lines  of  expression.  The  whole  book 
is  printed  on  the  cover.  Bryant's  deeply 
carved  countenance  was  hierog-lyphic,  and 
belong-ed  to  ante-diluvian,  post-diluvian,  or 
current  time,  according-  to  your  imagination. 
Keen  eyes,  peering"  out  from  the  shadow  of 
overhanging"  brows,  did  not  hold  you,  like  the 
*'g"littering'  eye"  of  the  Ancient  Mariner,  but 
they  penetrated  to  your  very  marrow. 

Like  his  father  he  liked  to  be  neatly  dressed, 
for  he  had  none  of  the  small  "pride  that  apes 
humility."  Antisthenes,  the  Cynic,  affected  a 
ragg"ed  coat;  but  Socrates  said  to  him,  "Antis- 
thenes, I  can  see  your  vanity  peering  out 
throug"h  the  holes  of  your  coat."  Bryant  care- 
fully observed  the  rules  of  good  society,  but 

69 


felt  no  sense  of  incongruity  in  the  company  of 
shirt-sleeved  laborers,  nor  would  he,  like 
Scott's  Sir  Piercie  Shafton,  blush  to  lead  the 
farmer's  daughter  out  to  dinner  or  the  dance. 
He  was  reticent.  Kven  with  old  acquaint- 
ances he  did  not  conceal  his  distaste  for  those 
pretty  conventional  fibs  and  pretences  that 
come  of  "making"  talk.  He  loved  to  hear  and 
tell  a  good  funny  story,  but  took  little  part  in 
the  lightning-bug  sparkle  of  social  time-kill- 
ing. He  loved  to  have  with  him  on  a  long  stroll, 
an  original-minded  and  suggestive  friend, 
who  could  enjoy  the  companionship  of  silence, 
and  take  a  great  deal  for  granted.  Webster 
had  a  talent  for  sleep.  Bryant  had  a  talent  for 
solitude  and  silence.  He  must  often  have  felt 
like  saying,  as  little  Paul  Dombey  at  the  sea- 
side said  to  the  sympathetic,  chattering  chil- 

70 


dren  around  him,  "Go  away,  if  you  please; 
thank  you,  thank  you,  but  I  don't  want  you." 
Bryant's  power  of  acquiring-  knowledg-e  was 
so  prodigfious,  and  his  industry  so  unremitting-, 
that  in  effect  he  lived  two  or  three  centuries. 
His  wonderful  memory  was  not  a  Robert 
Houdin  drag--net,  raking-  in  every  thing-,  g-ood, 
bad  and  indifferent.  Only  that  which  had 
merit  of  some  kind  was  retained.  To  him 
titles  were  tittles,  and  he  would  not  wear  one. 
The  popular  notion  that  he  was  of  cold  and 
impassive  temperament  is  perhaps  excusable, 
because  of  his  coolness  with  strangers,  thoug-h 
the  truth  is,  that  he  was  intense  in  friendship 
and  had  a  torrid  temper.  His  whole  life, 
however,  having  been  a  strugg-le  to  overcome 
imperfections  of  every  kind,  he  came  at  last  to 
hold    an    air-brake    control    of   himself,    and 

71 


became  one  of  the  gentlest  of  men.  Yet  one 
who  should  at  any  time  presume  to  impugn 
his  personal  integrity,  or  to  kill  the  wild  birds 
on  his  premises,  would  become  aware  of  heat 
under  that  cool  exterior.  Not  Sterne's  "My 
Uncle  Toby"  himself  could  have  been 
more  tender  with  the  suffering,  or  more 
gentle  with  the  animal  creation  than  he.  Bry- 
ant secured  nothing  of  what  is  called  "passional 
training  " — Lord  save  the  mark  ! — by  the  sac- 
rifice of  women's  hearts,  as  did  Goethe,  Byron 
and  Burns.  The  windows  of  his  soul  were  open 
to  veracity,  courage  and  virtue,  and  these 
angels  brought  him  the  gift  of  tongues  and  of 
song.  Like  the  planets  in  their  courses, 
Bryant  was  never  idle,  never  behind  time,  and 
never  in  a  hurry.  He  was  the  most  American 
of  our  poets.     He  belongs  to  the  soil  and  skies 

n 


of  his  native  land,  as  distinctly  as  the  bison  and 
the  bald  eag-le.  He  was  an  optimist,  with  the 
serene  assurance  of  great  and  earnest  souls 
that  the  universe  is  sound  and  God  is  well. 
His  faith  was  like  the  eternal  sunset  in  Faust, 
where  every  height  is  on  fire  and  every  vale 
is  in  repose.  Browning"  passionately  vocifer- 
ates that  "God  is  well."  He  cries,  "Iterate, 
reiterate,  snatch  it  from  the  hells."  Bryant 
in  serener  mood  leads  us  on  to  where  the  same 
glorious  assurance  opens  upon  us, 

"From  the  empyreal  height 
With  warmth,  and  certainty,  and  boundless  light." 

Bryant  has  no  line  of  despair — not  one!  His 
God  may  not  be,  as  Socrates  said  his  was,  "a 
God  of  glee,"  but  he  is  a  God  of  serene  and 
eternal  joy. 

Bryant's    poetry,    like    the    play-acting    of 

73 


Booth  and  Jefferson,  is  neither  startling*  nor 
sensational,  and  may  at  first  seem  to  lack  fire, 
but,  like  everything-  truly  beautiful,  it  is  a 
constant  revelation.  Gradually  absolute  fidel- 
ity to  nature  attunes  our  taste  to  a  faultless 
execution. 

Parke  Godwin  has  happily  said,  that  poetry 
is  *'the  steeping-  of  the  palpable  and  familiar 
in  the  g-lorious  dyes  of  the  ideal."  Matthew 
Arnold  says,  it  is  "a  faculty  of  divination," 
and  Coleridge,  that  it  is  "the  best  words 
in  the  best  order."  Bryant  full}'  answers  all 
these  definitions.  His  exquisite  choice  of 
words,  in  sound  as  well  as  signification,  is  a 
continual  delight.  A  hundred  instances  will 
come  to  the  minds  of  some  of  you;  I  can  only 
pause  to  note  one  or  two: 

74 


'■The  sonnd  of  dropping-  nuts  is  heard 
Though  all  the  trees  are  still." — 

Not  falling  nuts,  but  droppi7ig;  leaves  fall, 
nuts  drop.  When  he  speaks  of  the  "still 
lapse  of  ages,"  the  words  hold  you,  and  com- 
pel you  to  linger.  And  mark  how  smoothly 
and  silently 

"The  long  train  of  ages  glides  away'* 

in  an  infinite  perspective!  The  finest  touches 
we  feel,  but  can  hardly  analyze,  for  much  of 
their  power  and  sweetness  lies  in  the  ear  of 
him  that  hears. 

Bryant  is  accurate,  but  does  not  weary  with 
detail,  like  the  old  poets,  nor  with  catalogu- 
ing-, like  Walt  Whitman.  He  sees  the  veins 
and  cilia  and  serratures  of  the  leaf,  but  he 
does  not  anatomize  or  dissect  it.  His  style  is 
so  simple  and  clear  as  to  seem  inevitable. 

75 


"Heaped  in  the  hollows  of  the  grove,  the  autumn  leaves  lie  dead; 
They  rustle  to  the  eddying-  g^ust,  and  to  the  rabbit's  tread." 

How  easy,  and  how  obvious!  How  else  could 
it  have  been  written?  It  is  the  artlessness  of 
perfect  art.  You  will  not  find  a  crutch  or  a 
club-foot  in  all  Bryant's  procession.  He  is  a 
great  contrast  with  Emerson,  who,  always  rich 
in  thought,  and  often  perfect  in  rhythm,  some- 
times carelessly  leaves  a  bar  down,  or  a  linch- 
pin out,  as  when  he  is  talking  of  the  Adiron- 
dack woods, 

*'Where  feeds  the  moose,  and  walks  the  surly  bear, 
And  up  the  tall  mast  runs  the  woodpecker!" 

Holmes   explains   that   we  may   make    this 
couplet  rhyme  by  a  bit  of  verbicide,  thus: 

"Where  feeds  the  moose,  and  walks  the  surly  bear, 
And  up  the  tall  mast  runs  the  wood  peck-are!" 

Bryant's  personifications  of  wind  and  stream 
and  mountain  we  accept  instantly  and  com- 

76 


TDletely.  "The  Rivulet"  and  the 
"Evening  Wind  "  become  personal- 
ities as  distinct  to  you  and  me  as 
'^  Clark  E.  Carr  or  Doctor  Bateman. 

Hear  him  in  the  "Nig-ht  Journey  of  a  River," 

talking-  to  the  rolling"  stream: 

"O  River  I  darkling  River  I  what  a  voice 
Is  that  thou  utterest  while  all  else  is  still — 
The  ancient  voice  that,  centuries  ago, 
Sounded  between  thy  hills,  while  Rome  was  yet 
A  weedy  solitude  by  Tiber's  stream  I" 

Bryant  began  the  practice  of  law  in  the  little 
hamlet  of  Plainfield,  Massachusetts,  but  soon 
exchanged  its  loneliness  for  the  wider  opportu- 
nities and  excellent  society  of  Great  Barring- 
ton.  Here  he  was  fairly  successful  in  his  pro- 
fession, and  laid  the  foundation  of  a  home,  by 
a  most  happy  and  accordant  marriage. 
Through  his  own  aspirations,  and  the  sugges- 
tions of  the  learned  and  appreciative   Sedg- 

77 


LAST  EDITION 


W)t  fbemit0  ^0^1 


LAST) 


tSTtXUSatB   1W1.-V0I.  '•! 


KZV    \!JUK, 


w.  xovtiait  K. 


siuKunuuia 


tm^a  «  IB  CHI  :::.,ira.ir.i.vr;7i___i!::!ni 


|^5^Jn:?£^|H0WAP 


wicks 
and   others, 


p=:zi2r^*""*^  he  entered  in  1825  a  wider  and  more 
cong-enial  field  of  labor  in  the  metropolis.  His 
fame  was  already  secure.  Bryant  lived  in  his 
own  da}^  two  long-  lives,  and  was  pre-eminent 
in  each,  as  poet  and  editor.  Dr.  Holmes,  says 
truly,  "A  breath  of  noble  verse  outlives  all  that 
can  be  carved  in  stone  or  cast  in  bronze."  Bry- 
ant's fame,  therefore,  rests  mainly  on  his  verses, 
but  his  chief  merit  is  that  he  was  a  g-reat  and 
constant  moral  force.  In  the  earlier  part  of 
his  editorial  career  the  moral  apathy  of  the 
country  was  profound  and  almost  hopeless. 
Yet  he  made  the  Evemng  Postr^  for  a  whole 

78 


g-eneration,  not  only  a  recog^nized  literary  au- 
thority, but  the  high-water  mark  of  public 
and  political  morality.  He  was  as  true  and  as 
imperturable  as  Alpha,  the  star  of  the  north. 
For  two  g-enerations  he  labored  as  a  man  among* 
men,  for  the  streng-thening-  of  that  moral  senti- 
ment, and  that  public  and  private  virtue,  which 
lie  at  the  basis  of  all  politics  and  all  relig^ion 
that  are  worth  anything-  to  mankind. 

In  the  very  citadel  of  negrophobia  and  Baal- 
worship  he  raised  the  standard  of  that  "High- 
er Law,"  whose  home,  as  old  Richard  Hooker 
said,  "Is  in  the  bosom  of  God,  and  whose  voice 
is  the  harmony  of  the  universe."  And  when, 
in  1865,  it  became  almost  safe  for  Colleges  to 
listen  to  Conscience,  for  Statesmen  to  be  wise, 
for  Commerce  to  be  honest,  for  the  Church  to 
be  Christian,  and  for  Courts  to  be  just,  none 

79 


rejoiced  with  a  profounder  joy  than  this  mod- 
est, faithful  poet-editor,  for  none  had  played  a 
nobler  part  than  he  in  the  mig-hty  strug-g-le. 

^'Blest  and  thrice  blest  the  Roman 
Who  sees  Rome's  brightest  day," 

and  this  our  Cato  saw. 

Few  lives  have  been  so  well  rounded  and 
complete.  No  window  in  this  Aladdin  palace 
was  left  unfinished,  but  a  mag-ic  lamp  of  gen- 
ius long  shone  clear  from  every  one.  His  first 
word  was  the  absolute  truth  of  nature,  and  his 
last  was  an  aspiration  for  that  day-dawn, 
*'when  the  rights  and  duties  of  human  broth- 
erhood shall  be  acknowledged  by  all  the  races 
of  mankind." 

Bryant  was  great  in  genius,  great  in  exper- 
ience, great  in   purity  of  life,  great  in  mod- 

80 


esty  and  simplicity.  Let  Clio,  muse  of  his- 
tory, in  the  book  of  Fame  write  him  immortal, 
and  bid  men  earn  and  claim  a  palm  like  his. 

Trasting  the  present,  tolerant  of  the  past, 
Firm-faithed  in  what  shall  come 
When  the  vain  noises  of  these  days  are  dnmb — 

His  first  word  was  noble  as  his  last. 


81 


FROM  THE  EDITOR 
OE  THE  CENTURY 

Every  lover  of  letters  will  be  g"lad  that  you  are  to 
keep  in  memory  the  one  hundredth  birthday  of  Bry- 
ant. The  principal  question  concerning  every  poet 
is  whether  he  is  indeed  a  poet.  That  is  the  one  mat- 
ter of  importance — the  rank  time  only  can  determine. 
That  Bryant  was  a  true  poet  there  is  no  doubt.  At 
his  best  he  was  an  artist  of  no  mean  power;  he  had 
an  exquisite  truth  of  expression,  and  now  and  again 
the  quick  light  of  imagination. 

He  was  also  something  beside  a  poet.  He  was, 
here  in  New  York,  our  "first  citizen,"  a  noble  figure 
and  influence  in  our  civic  life;  a  good  man,  a  patriot, 
a  statesman.     His  influence  did  not  cease  at  the  city's 

85 


bounds,  nor  with  his  lifetime.  The  nation  was  bet- 
ter for  his  thoug-ht,  his  pure  and  lofty  art;  it  always 
will  feel  the  effect  upon  it  of  the  life  of  the  poet,  edi- 
tor, and  patriot  whose  hundredth  birthday  you  honor 
yourselves  in  thus  remembering". 


New  York,  November  1, 1894. 


» 


FROM  THE  EDITOR 
OF  THE   ATLANTIC 

I  am  sorry  that  iny  eng-ag-euients  since  receiving" 
your  kind  invitation  have  prevented  me  from  writing- 
before,  so  that  I  am.  forced  now  to  content  myself 
with  little  more  than  an  acknowledg-ment  of  your 
courtesy. 

There  is,  I  think,  a  sing-ular  fitness  in  the  cele- 
bration of  Bryant's  anniversary  in  the  West,  aside 
from  the  personal  reasons  which  appear;  for  Bryant's 
poetry  has  in  it  the  elemental  quality;  a  great  sky 
broods  over  it;  the  lines,  like  his  waterfowl,  seem  to 
rise  and  pass  into  large  ether;  and  the  sweep  of  the 
prairie,  the   spaciousness  of  g-reat  lakes  and  wide 

87 


horizon  belong  to  the  spirit  which  sounds  through 
his  grave,  yet  impassioned  verse.  The  nation,  now 
that  it  has  gathered  its  great  singers  in  the  upper 
air,  could  ill  afford  to  miss  from  that  august  choir  the 
voice  of  Bryant. 


^; 


Boston,  November  1,  1894. 


88 


FROM  THE  AUTHOR  OF 
**A  I.ITTI.E;  BOOK  OF  WESTERN  VERSE" 

I  am  sorry  that  I  cannot  be  with  you  at  the  Bry- 
ant celebration.  I  should  like  to  testify  by  my  pres- 
ence to  my  reverence  and  love  for  the  noble  old  poet. 
Diis  alitur  videtur.  There  are  exacting  home  duties; 
thing's  must  be  written;  a  delicate  little  baby  daugh- 
ter must  be  watched;  the  wolf  must  be  kept  from  the 
door. 

Many  years  have  elapsed  since  my  home  was 
among  your  people.  They  have  been  eventful  years 
with  me,  yet  at  no  time  in  all  that  period  have  I 
ceased  to  think  affectionately  and  tenderly  of  the  old 
associates  and  the  old  scenes.  And  it  has  given  me 
great  regret  indeed  that  I  have  not  yet  been  able  to 

89 


demonstrate  in  some  practical  and  effective  way  how 
large  an  obligation  I  feel  that  I  am  under  to  Knox, 
by  no  means  the  least  beloved  of  my  numerous  Almcs 
Matres. 

It  would  be  particularly  pleasant  to  renew  old 
friendships  under  the  auspices  of  that  reunion  which 
you  are  about  to  celebrate.  Bryant  was  so  loyal  a 
lover,  so  enthusiastic  a  student,  and  so  accurate  a 
reader  and  interpreter  of  Nature,  that  I  find  it  easy 
to  associate  him  with  beautiful  Galesburg,  its 
embowered  homes,  its  venerable,  hospitable  trees,  its 
shady  walks  and  driveways,  its  billowy  lawns,  its  ex- 
uberant gardens  and  its  charming  vistas.  He  would 
have  loved  that  academic  spot;  he  would  have  loved 
the  people,  too,  for  he  would  have  found  them  gra- 
cious, appreciative  and  sympathetic  in  all  those  high 
and  ennobling  lines  he  always  pursued. 

Dear  sir,  with  every  assurance  of  cordial  regard, 

I  am. 

Yours  very  sincerely, 

Eugene  Field 

Bueua  Park,  November  1, 1894 


90 


/'■"' 

^^r^.   .  .- 

"^^  ?^-T^ 

f.- 

"^^ 

f 

p 

0''^ 

V. 

wy 

FROM   THE   AUTHOR   OF 
"  THE  GRANDISSIMES  " 

Let  me  thank  you  sincerely  for  the  privilege  of 
contributing-  a  written  word  to  your  celebration  of 
the  gfreat  life  begun  one  hundred  years  ago  almost  in 
sight  of  the  window  where  I  sit  at  work. 

It  seems  to  me  especially  fitting  that  the  Centen- 
nial of  the  birth  of  Bryant  should  be  commemorated 
in  that  "West"  which  was  in  his  day  as  truly  a  land 
of  Divine  promise  and  command  as  was  Canaan  to 
the  people  of  Moses. 

Our  East  was  no  Bgypt  to  him;  by  no  dark  spir- 
itual experience  did  he  ever  know  a  land  of  captivity; 
but  your  vast  prairies,  with  their  splendid  invitation 

91 


to  all  lovers  of  freedom  and  progress  to  work  out 
under  their  friendly  sky  the  countless,  painful  prob- 
lems of  the  earth,  were  to  him  a  mirror  of  his  own 
majestic  spirit  as  a  prophet  of  political  righteousness 
and  liberty,  a  priest  of  nature,  and  the  most  Ameri- 
can of  poets. 


Ever  yours  truly, 


Dryad's  Green,  Northampton,  Mass.,  October  29, 1894 


92 


FROM   THE   EDITOR 
OF  THE   DIAI, 

I  feel  myself  honored  by  your  invitation  to  par- 
ticipate in  the  proposed  celebration  of  Bryant's  birth- 
daj'  at  Knox.  Unfortunately  for  me,  circumstances 
imperatively  forbid  my  being-  present  on  that  inter- 
esting- occasion.  But  I  thank  you  sincerely  for  the 
kindness  of  your  invitation,  and  beg  you  to  express 
my  thanks  to  President  Finley. 

I  am  glad  to  learn  of  this  altog-ether  fitting-  cele- 
bration. It  is  a  good  sign  for  literature  and  for 
higher  education,  when  our  colleges  take  up  in  this 
practical  way  the  duty — which  is  even  more  a  privi- 
leg-e  than  a  duty — of  honoring-  the  work  and  worth  of 
our  greatest  American  authors  and  g-reatest  American 
citizens.  Now  that  the  last  of  the  noble  group  has 
left  us — the  group  that  g-ave  to  American  life  in  our 

93 


century  its  chief  glory— their  g-enius  and  their  virtues 
cannot  be  too  strongly  impressed  upon  the  young, 
who  are  the  heirs  of  to-day  and  the  moulders  of  the 
future.  There  is  surely  a  legitimate  and  honorable 
pride  in  one's  own  literature  and  one's  own  country, 
in  thus  paying  reverent  tribute  to  the  distinguished 
men  who  have  done  so  much  for  us  and  for  humanit)'. 
It  is  peculiarly  fitting  that  this  tribute  be  paid,  and 
this  reverent  and  patriotic  spirit  be  invoked,  on  the 
occasion  of  the  one  hundredth  anniversary  of  the 
birth  of  Bryant — the  leader  and  patriarch  of  the 
illustrious  band  whose  work  has  so  quickened  and 
advanced  the  literary'  development  of  our  country, 
and  become  an  imperishable  part  of  the  literature  of 
our  English  race.  Bryant  was  peculiarly,  and  in  the 
best  sense,  an  American.  No  man  has  more  strongly 
urged  or  more  strikingly  exemplified  at  once  the 
claims  of  good  literature  and  the  virtues  of  good  citi- 
zenship. Especially  in  his  later  years,  when  he  was 
active  in  all  civil  affairs,  life  was  to  him  the  noblest 
aim,  "his  manhood  better  than  his  verse."  He  was 
poet  and  patriot  in  one.  And  as  in  literature  his 
work  was  always  dignified,  simple,  genuine,  scorning 
the  slightest  touch  of  anj'thing  tawdry  or  meretri- 
cious in  his  art,  so  were  his  political  teachings  always 
inspiring  and  uplifting,  founded  upon  the  loftiest 
ideals  of  private  and  public  morality,  and  working 
always  to  the  end  of  "nobler  manners,  purer  laws." 
The  trickster  and  the  trimmer  in  politics  were  as  in- 

94 


tolerable  to  him  as  the  sensationalist  or  the  clown  in 
literature.  Lacking  the  sense  of  humor  which  was 
so  larg-e  a  saving  grace  in  Holmes  and  Lowell,  who 
could  satirize  as  well  as  denounce,  and  laugh  at  the 
follies  which  tiiey  might  not  cure,  the  austere  tem- 
pera,ment  of  Bryant— the  patriot  politician,  the  scrup- 
ulous and  high-minded  journalist,  the  dignified  and 
fastidious  poet — would  have  suffered  many  a  rude 
shock  in  our  later  day,  when  character  and  attain- 
ments count  for  so  little  in  public  life  that  the  phrase 
"scholar  in  politics"  is  used  in  derision  by  practical 
politicians  of  the  dominant  sort;  when  journalistic 
enterprise  seeks  not  only  for  new  worlds  of  patronage 
to  conquer  but  for  new  depths  of  degradation  to  ex- 
plore; when  maudlin  sentimentalism  and  vulgar  dog- 
gerel make  up  so  large  a  part  of  popular  current 
poetry.  And  here,  perhaps,  is  the  place  to  point  the 
practical  moral  for  the  young  men  and  women  of  our 
time — a  time  when  both  politics  and  literature  are  too 
often  degraded  by  the  popular  tolerance,  and  even 
the  approva.1,  of  low  aims  and  ignoble  achievements. 
If  I  might  speak  one  word  louder  than  another  to  the 
students  of  Knox  College,  it  would  be.  Keep  your 
aims  high  and  your  methods  clean.  Beware  of  the 
prevalent  vulgarity,  in  politics,  in  literature,  in  life. 
Least  of  all  must  you  expect  your  work  to  be  high  if 
your  life  is  low.  Make  no  sophistical  distinction  be- 
tween public  acts  and  private  morals.  Never  allow 
the  political  to  be  separated  from  the  ethical.     Do  not 

95 


disassociate  literature  from  life;  feel,  rather,  that 
literature  is  life,  and  the  best  part  of  life.  You  must 
be  able  to  feel  g-reat  thing-s  before  you  can  express 
them.  If  you  wish  to  do  something-  worthy  in  the 
world,  seek  first  to  be  something  worthy  in  yourself. 
And  if,  in  these  and  many  other  things,  j^ou  need  an 
example  and  an  inspiration,  you  may  well  look  for 
them  in  the  life  and  teachings  of  the  great  poet  and 
the  good  citizen  whom  you  will  best  honor  by  making 
his  influence  vital  in  j'our  lives. 


XZ     k/        J% 


Chicago,  November  1.  1894 


96 


FROM  THE   PRESIDENT   OF  THE 
UNIVERSITY   OF   WISCONSIN 

Some  of  Mr.  Bryant's  poetry  will  undoubtedly 
live.  As  in  the  case  of  Mr.  Lowell,  it  was  a  misfor- 
tune to  letters  that  poetry  was  destined  to  suffer  from. 
a  divided  attention.  I  think  no  one  can  read  Mr. 
Lowell's  letters  without  feeling-  that  it  was  a  g-reat 
loss  to  poetry  and  literature  that  he  was  oblig-ed  to 
work  so  hard  as  a  colleg-e  professor.  I  think  also,  in 
the  case  of  Bryant,  it  was  a  loss  to  literature  that  one 
who  promised  to  be  our  foremost  poet  felt  oblig-ed  to 
devote  himself  to  the  arduous  work  of  editing-  a  daily 
paper.  In  saying  this  I  am  not  insensible  to  the  vast 
service  rendered  by  Mr.  Bryant  in  raising-  the  stand- 
ard of  journalism.  Possibly  his  service  in  this  way 
was  g-reatcr  than  in  any  other.  All  that  I  mean  is 
that  his  contributions  to  literature  mig-ht  have  been 
far  greater  and  far  more  important  if  the  Evening 

97 


Pest  had  not  for  so  many  years  occupied  a  predomi- 
nant place  in  his  thoug-ht. 

To  bring  before  the  people  the  life  and  services 
and  aspirations  of  a  man  like  Mr.  Bryant  at  such  a 
time  as  this  is  a  real  service  in  behalf  of  better 
standards  and  methods. 

Very   tru.\y  fouff. 

Madison.  Wis..  November  1,  18W 


98 


FROM    THE   PRESIDENT  OF 
DARTMOUTH   COI^LEGE 

I  can  add  little  to  what  (as  is  proved  by  their 
words  at  Cumming-ton  last  Aug-ust)  Mr.  Bryant  and 
Mr.  Brown  will  so  fittingly  say  to  you  next  Saturday; 
nor  need  I  emphasize  the  thought  you  all  have  antic- 
ipated: that  the  death  of  Holmes,  occurring  so  near 
to  the  anniversary  of  Bryant's  birth,  fittingly  if 
pathetically  rounds  out  a  significant  century  in  the 
history  of  American  poetry. 

The  more  I  reflect  upon  the  history  of  our  litera- 
ture, the  more  do  I  dwell  on  the  fact  that,  as  Irving 
was  the  real  beginner  of  our  literature  in  prose,  so 
Bryant  was  the  first  to  emerg-e  in  a  large  and  master- 
ful way  as  to  the  leader  of  our  band  of  true  poets. 
He  saw  the  relations  of  man  to  the  Divine  above  him 
and  to  Nature  about  him,  and  therefor  shared,  as  an 
original  force,  in  the  great  romantic  movement 
which,  in  his  early  years,  so  powerfully  affected 
English  verse  in  two  nations;  and  the  depth  of  his 
thought  was  equalled  by  the  strength  of  his  word. 

I  can  never  forget  the  impression  of  dignified 
reserve,  mingled  with  kindly  beneficence,  which  was 
left  by  the  poet — both  bard  and  sage — a  few  months 
before  his  death,  when  I  had  occasion  to  visit  him 
with  reference  to  the  last  poem  he  contributed  to  the 
periodical  press.  Its  theme  was  the  birthday  of 
Washington,  whom  Bryant  somewhat  resembled  in 
character  and  intellectual  attitude;  and  its  stately 
lines,  themselves  written  for  an  anniversary  occasion, 
unconsciously  portray  the  poet  himself,  and  are  well 
fitted  to  be  read  on  the  day  you  now  observe: 

99 


"Pale  is  the  February  sky, 

And  brief  the  mid-day's  sunny  hours; 
The  wind-swept  forest  seems  to  sigh 
For  the  sweet  time  of  leaves  and  flowers. 

"Yet  has  no  month  a  prouder  day, 
Not  even  when  the  summer  broods 
O'er  meadows  in  their  fresh  array. 
Or  autumn  tints  the  glowing  woods. 

"For  this  chill  season  now  again 

Bring-s,  in  its  annual  round,  the  morn 
When,  greatest  of  the  sons  of  men, 
Our  glorious  Washington  was  born. 

"Lo,  where,  beneath  an  icy  shield 
Calmly  the  mighty  Hudson  flows; 
By  snow-clad  fell  and  frozen  field 
Broadening,  the  mighty  river  goes. 

"The  widest  storm  that  sweeps  through  space, 
And  rends  the  oak  with  sudden  force, 
Can  raise  no  ripple  on  his  face. 
Or  slacken  his  majestic  course. 

"This,  mid  the  wreck  of  thrones,  shall  live, 
Unmarred,  undimmed,  our  hero's  fame, 
And  years  succeeding  years  shall  give 
Increase  of  honors  to  his  name.'' 


QMoaJU^  T-  /UcAayJi 


W 


Hanover,  N.  H.,  October  30,  1894 


100 


FROM    MR.    PARKE    GODWIN 

I  answered,  your  Urst  letter  several  days  ag-o,  sav- 
ing- that  I  was  preparing-  an  address  on  Mr.  Bryant 
and  could  find  no  time  for  any  elaborate  reply  to 
5'our  very  kind  request.  I  think  I  said  therein  also 
that  Mr.  Bryant's  character  and  services  were  of  a 
kind  not  easily  to  be  mistaken.  He  was  not  only  a 
man  of  g-enius,  but  a  man  of  the  widest  sympathies 
and  the  most  spotless  conduct.  No  one  ever 
approached  him  without  being-  inspired  at  once  by 
respect  for  his  uprig-htness,  and  admiration  for  his 
ability-.  I  hope  j'our  commemoration  will  be  in  every 
way  successful. 


/^M 


Rosljn,  Long  Island,  N.  Y..  October  27, 1894 


FROM   THE   PRESIDENT   OF  THE 
UNIVERSITY   OF    MICHIGAN 

In  these  days,  when  so  many  of  our  young-  people 
find  themselves  captivated  by  sensuous  or  sensational 
poetry,  or  charmed  by  the  fashionable  "verses  of 
society,"  I  trust  your  celebration  maj'  inspire  them 
with  a  new  love  for  the  sane,  sincere  and  serious 
verse  of  Bryant. 

James  B.  Angei,i. 

Ann  Artor,  Mich.,  Xovember  1, 1894 

101 


FROM  THE    PRESIDENT    OF 
MONMOUTH    COI.I.EGE 

Mr.  President,  I  thank  you  and  those  associated 
with  you  who  have  made  it  possible  for  me  to  enjoy 
with  you  the  pleasure  of  this  occasion.  As  I  have 
listened  to  these  delightful  exercises  replete  with  his- 
tory, reminiscence,  sentiment,  poetry  and  song",  I 
seem  to  have  lived  a  hundred  years  in  an  hour.  My 
thoughts  have  gone  back  to  the  birth  of  our  poet, 
almost  to  the  beginning  of  our  government,  and  re- 
called the  great  wealth  of  heritage  which  the  young 
men  and  women  of  this  generation  inherit.  It  con- 
sists not  so  much  in  its  extent  of  territory,  though 
that  is  great;  not  so  much  in  the  size  of  its  standing 
army,  though  that  is  small;  not  so  much  in  the  fertility 
of  its  soil  and  the  salubritj'  of  its  climate,  though  both 
are  unsurpassed;  but  in  the  greatness  and  richness 
of  the  lives  of  its  men  and  women,  such  as  the  one 
whose  birth  we  celebrate.  We  have  no  Westminster 
Abbey  in  which  their  forms  are  chiseled  in  marble, 
and  their  deeds  graven  with  a  pen  of  iron  in  stone, 
but  their  names  and  their  deeds  are  both  preserved 
in  the  history  of  our  free  institutions  and  enshrined 
in  the  hearts  of  a  g-rateful  people.  Their  names 
brighten  up  all  the  past  of  our  history  and  throw  a 
still,  clear  light  far  out  into  the  prophetic  history  of 
our  future. 

Just  as  the  young  men  and  women  of  the  present, 
of  whom  I  see  so  many  in  this  large  and  representa- 
tive audience,  imbibe  the  spirit  of  greatness  and 
goodness  as  lived  by  the  great  and  the  good  of  our 
country,  will  her  future  be  filled  with  the  realizations 
of  hope. 

Not  so  many  women  as  men  can  be  recalled  who 
have  made  their  lives  sublime,  though  there  may  be 

102 


more  but  less  conspicuous;  yet,  if  I  am  not  mistaken, 
the  spirit  of  the  times  is  changing-,  opportunities  are 
opening  and,  invitations  are  extending,  as  never 
before,  to  the  young  women  to  fit  themselves  for  a 
more  prominent  part  in  the  future;  and  when  another 
hundred  years  of  our  history  shall  have  been  written, 
the  co-education  of  the  sexes  shall  have  been  more 
than  vindicated  in  the  equal  number  of  illustrious 
men  and  women  entitled  to  recognition  on  such  an 
occasion  as  this. 

J.  B.  McMiCHAEi^ 


FROM  THK   PROFESSOR   OF 
IvlTERATURE  AT  I.OMBARD  UNIVERSITY 

We  owe  the  tribute  of  gratitude  to  Brj^ant  as  the 
poet  who  gave  utterance  to  that  love  of  nature  which 
is  instinctive  in  the  American  people.  His  ancestors 
had  known  the  toil  and  struggle  of  the  pioneer  life, 
and  by  their  daily  experience  had  gained  that  pas- 
sion for  the  beauty  of  the  outside  world  which  came 
to  him  as  a  precious  heritage.  As  our  first  great  art 
was  landscape  art,  so  our  first  great  poetry  was  the 
poetry  of  nature.  Bryant  voiced  the  feelings  of  the 
people,  but  with  a  deep  insight  and  truth  that  made 
him  the  interpreter  of  nature  to  other  minds.  And 
among  all  the  flowers  which  he  loved  so  well,  and 
which  he  sought  so  diligently  in  the  fields  and  in  the 
woods,  there  was  not  one  more  beautiful  than  the 
white  flower  of  his  own  blameless  life. 

John  Ci^arence  Lee 

103 


FROM   THE   PRESIDENT  OE 
CI.ARK   UNIVERSITY 

I  am  g-lad  you  are  to  honor  the  memory  of  Bryant. 
I  know  of  no  other  poet  since  Wordsworth  who  can 
be  called  a  lover  of  nature  in  so  high  a  sense.  He 
said,  you  remember,  "Every  one  is  by  nature  a  nat- 
uralist." Believing-,  as  I  do,  that  not  only  science, 
but  art,  literature  and  relig-ion  have  their  ethnic  root 
in  the  love  of  nature,  which  city  life  and  the  material 
utilization  not  only  of  her  forces  but  her  beautj'', 
seems  to  be  slowly  exting-uishing-  among-  children  and 
youth,  it  is  indeed  a  lit  time  to  celebrate  one  whose 
early  life  drew  all  its  streng-th  from  nature.  Her 
laureate  Bryant  is  becoming-  more  and  more  in  this 
country.     I  am,  with  sincere  reg-ard 


(^^  ^/c.-^^     UuJU, 


Worcester,  Mass.,  October  2'),  189+ 

FROM   THE    PRESIDENT  OF 
I,AKE  FOREST  UNIVERSITY 

It  would  g"ive  me  great  pleasure  to  join  with  oth- 
ers in  your  celebration  of  the  one  hundredth  anniver- 
sary of  the  birth  of  the  poet  Bryant.  However,  my 
engag-ements  will  prevent  a  personal  expression  of 
my  sentiments.  It  is  a  splendid  thing-  to  do  honor  to 
the  g-reat  men  who  have  helped  to  make  our  literature, 
and  also  to  impress  their  g-reatness  upon  students.  I 
wish  that  all  students  who  are  forming  their  intel- 
lectual and  moral  fiber  would  g-et  into  it  much  of  such 
strength  and  beauty  as  characterized  the  poet  in 
whose  honor  you  are  meeting". 

John  M.  Coulter 

Lake  Forest,  111 ,  November  1,  1894 

104 


Zbis  aSooS  was  B5r{nte^ 
for  ^bcse  ipcrsons 


James  C.  Ayres 

A.  Edward  Anderson 

Mrs.  James  C.  Burns 

Katherine  Bianchard  Baffby 

Edgar  A.  Bancroft 

Charles  P.  Bascom 

Newton  Bateman 

Eug"ene  C.  Bates 

Frances  Bagby  Blades 

Clara  Parsons  Bourland 

A.  W.  Boyden 

Mrs.  John  F.  Boydston 

John  H.  Bo3-s 

Edwin  R.  Brown 

E.  Lester  Brown 

D.  S.  Brown 
Walter  L.  Brown 
James  S.  Barkman 
John  Howard  Bryant 
Mrs.  W.  H.  Bryant 
Mrs.  L.  S.  Bryant 
Arthur  Bryant 

Guy  A.  Bryant 
I/.vda  Burkhaiter 
Mrs   James  C.  Burns 
Harriet  Manville  Calkins 
Mrs   Georg-e  W.  Cone 
Mrs.  A.  L.  Craig- 
Josephine  A.  Mitchell  Carey 
John  White  Chadwick 
Mary  L.  Cook 
Kate  Chase 

Ciarance  Gordon  Coulson 
John  Pearsons  Cushing- 
Georg-e  B.  Churchill 
Sherman  L*.  Cox 

E.  R.  Drake 

Louis  Stanley  Du  Bois 

Annie  Bateman  Ewart 

Mrs.  B.  F.  Everiy 

May  Fisk 

Grace  Carr  Fahnestock 

Mary  Finch 

Jennie  C.  Franklin 


Frank  Tavlor  Fulton 

Alida  E.  Finch 

John  Hig-ham 

Carrie  Alma  Haas 

Samuel  Hoffheimer 

Francis  M.  Hag-ue 

Jessie  Rosette  Holmes 

Anna  C.  Hicks 

Minnie  L.  Holmes 

Mary  C.  Hurd 

Bessie  Bateman  Geissinger 

Georg-e  Gallarno 

H.  Grace  Goldsmith 

Charles  C.  Georg-e 

Janet  Greig 

Mary  E.  Getteray 

Jean  McAdam  Greig 

Ella  P.Gilbert 

Augustus  Griswold 

Richard  Watson  Gilder 

S.  L.  Guthrie 

Delia  Sheldon  Jackson 

Guy  Hallett  Johnson 

Jeremiah  W.  Jenks 

Mrs.  Par'e^-  M.  Johnson 

Johns  Hopkins  University 

Donnizetta  Adelaide  Jones 

Mrs.  S.  Hallett  Johnson 

Mrs.  C.  F.  King 

P.  J.  Kuntz 

Oscar  Monroe  Lanstrum 

James  Lewis 

Almedia  Laurson 

Clara  Kingsbury  Lewis 

Charles  A.  Laurson 

George  A.  Lawrence 

Lizzie  Lee 

Henry  E.  Losey 

James  H.  Losey 

Enoch  B.  Linn 

Harriet  Ferris  McLaughlin 

Sarah  S.  Mathews 

Sara  M,  McCall 

Alexander  A.  McCormick 


105 


Margaret  C.  McCornack 

J.  B.  McMichael 

J.  C,  McMichael 

T.  H.  McMichael 

W.  J.  McMichael 

Lola  Maddox 

Edward  W.  Manny 

William  S.  Marquis 

Mrs.  A.  W,  Marshall 

Anne  Mathews 

James  G.  Needham 

Ida  Nichols 

John  H.  Olds 

Bryant  Olds 

Everett  Ward  Olmsted 

Emily  Ward  Olmsted 

Mrs.  George  A.  Plimpton 

Leah  Irene  Pearsall 

D.  K.  Pearsons 

Peoria  Public  Library 

Albert  J.  Perry 

Elizabeth  Phillips 

W.  A.  Phillips 

John  W.  Plain 

Lee  S.  Pratt 

Mabel  Sisson  Priestly 

J.  F.  Percy 

Mrs.  E.  Robinson 

Mrs.  Henry  T.  Rainey 

Mrs.  H.  W.  Rawson 

Mrs.  Austin  Reeves 


Mrs.  Tracy  Reeves 

Bowman  F.  Reinmund 

Delia  Maud  Rice 

William  R.  Robbins 

Josephine  Robinson 

Elizabeth  A.  Rugar 

Edna  Sapp 

Martha  Scott 

Mary  Scott 

William  E.  Simonds 

Henrv  McCall  Sisson 

Mrs.  D.  H.  Smith 

Mrs.  E.  O.  Sm'ith 

Mrs.  Gilmore  T.  Smith 

J.  T.  Stewart 

Albert  P.  Stockwell 

H   Sundquist 

Helen  I.  Tennej' 

E.  Susan  Tibbits 

John  Watson-Taylor 

B3-ron  Weston 

Mary  A.  Wiggins 

W.  Irving  Way 

Martha  Farnhara  Webster 

A.  B.  E.  Wenneberg 

Samuel  Weyler 

Walter  L.  Wiley 

Thomas  R.  Willard 

E.  P.  Williams 

Frank  M.  Wing 


UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS-URBANA 

B.B915BRY  cOOl 

THE  BRYANT  CENTENNIAL  GALESBURG 


3  0112  025404663 


